


Lashes for Love

by FictionAddictions23



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Gay, M/M, Misunderstandings, Requited Unrequited Love, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 20:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11859480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FictionAddictions23/pseuds/FictionAddictions23
Summary: Sanji's woman-loving tendencies cause quite a commotion, and Zoro pays a steep price for the cook's mistake. When the swordsman misunderstands Sanji's feelings, the cook will just have to find a way to prove his love.Warnings: mild description of a whipping,  angst, and some fluff to top it off!





	Lashes for Love

**Author's Note:**

> I realized that I hadn't done a fic where Sanji and Zoro weren't in some sort of physical or romantic relationship, but they each had secret feelings for the other...then this happened! Enjoy! :)

Never, in all his time since joining the Straw Hat crew, had Sanji ever felt so utterly helpless, and the worst part was that he only had himself to blame. It was because of _him_ that Zoro was currently suffering from immeasurable pain in front of an audience of people (if such barbarians could even be called that) who had callously subjected him to the cook’s rightful punishment.

There had been no warning signs—no hint of danger when they’d docked at this large, unassuming island filled with bustling towns and smiling villagers going about their everyday activities. The crew had split up as usual, seeking out whatever pleasures the island’s culture had in store for them, and it was thanks to that twisted “culture” that Sanji was currently in this horrible predicament.

All he’d wanted was to express his passionate love for the beautiful temple maiden whom he’d met while walking around town in search of supplies for their journey, but it was Zoro who’d ended up paying for his exaggerated flirtations. Her father had turned out to be an important figure in the community, and he had _not_ appreciated the cook’s admittedly perverse words.

It wasn’t as though Sanji had accosted the lady, or shown any sort of aggressive intentions toward her, but he _had_ held her hand during his typical love-struck spiel, which was apparently regarded as a highly offensive action. He hadn’t even gotten the woman’s name before another shrine maiden began shrieking at his display of unwanted affection.

Then the men had come and surrounded him, giving him no time to explain before they’d herded him away towards the center of town. He could have fought back, of course, but then it would have been trouble for the entire crew, and Sanji hadn’t wanted to cause a bigger ruckus than he already had. He’d thought that if he complied and went willingly with the armed guards then he would be able to explain the situation to her father and avoid an unnecessary quarrel.

That had been a stupid, _stupid_ fucking move.

They’d waited until he let his guard down, halfway through what he’d thought to be a civilized discussion with the town’s head priest, before slinging a heavy set of chains around his legs and torso to effectively bind him. Then they’d brought him to a public whipping post and started things off with a good old-fashioned beating. It was during this display of brutality that the Straw Hat’s swordsman had wandered into the square, no doubt lost and curious about what all the fuss was about.

Sanji hadn’t noticed his arrival until it had been too late. Somehow, the idiot had managed to convince all the enraged temple guards that there was no point in punishing him with physical pain, and indeed, Sanji hadn’t been phased in the slightest by their attempts to hurt him—he’d received much more powerful blows from the green-haired man himself during their casual sparring.

One hundred lashes. That was the price for compromising the honor of the head priest’s daughter, and before Sanji could speak a word of dissent, they had brought Zoro out of the crowd and led him to the whipping post. He could have taken them all out, of course, but he didn’t. Instead, the swordsman was infuriatingly calm as he stepped into the circle of riled up villagers, shadowed by a handful of guards with pointy weapons trailed at his naked chest. They had already removed his swords, shirt, and pants before dressing him in a pure white robe that hung around his waist, leaving his back bare for the whip to mark.

One hundred times—it seemed unreasonably excessive and more than cruel, especially since the swordsman was completely innocent. Sanji watched him approach the post with angry confusion and disbelief, straining against the chains that were preventing him from stepping up and taking the lashes himself while his mind screamed for an explanation as to why the shitty-swordsman looked so damn casual about the whole thing.

“What the hell is _he_ doing here?!” Sanji shouted, turning his glare on each of the guards surrounding Zoro. “He hasn’t done anything wrong!”

The head priest came forward to address the cook’s words, forcing him to look up from his place kneeling on the ground to meet cold, unfeeling eyes; they were nothing like his daughter’s nor any of the other islanders’, who had all appeared so normal until their carefully constructed illusion of peace had been challenged by one man’s careless advances toward a member of their religious order. Even if they didn’t know that Sanji’s actions were harmless, it seemed like it simply didn’t matter one way or the other. They would protect their own, and outsiders were not to be trusted—pirates least of all. 

“It is true that this man has not offended us in any way, but he said that he is your comrade, and we agreed that you would not benefit from receiving the lashes yourself. Men like you must be disciplined by other means,” the priest stated with an even colder smile.

Sanji paled, turning to meet the swordsman’s eyes with an accusing glare. “He agrees with you on that, does he? What the hell are you thinking, marimo?! This has nothing to do with you!” he shouted angrily. Panic was starting to set in now because there was truly nothing he could do to stop Zoro from making the insane choice to take the lashing for him. None of their other crewmates were in sight—it _was_ a pretty big island, after all—and if no one came to their rescue soon then the two of them were shit out of luck.

“Zoro! What the fuck?! Answer me, bastard! Why are you doing this?!” he raged.

The swordsman looked at him then, with that same air of impossible calmness smoothing out his features, and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a lopsided grin. “Because it’ll hurt less this way.”

That was what he’d said, but Sanji began shaking with terror at the thought of being forced to watch something so awful, and he felt like he was seconds away from having a full-on conniption. How _dare_ that bastard act so goddamn high and mighty as if Sanji were too weak to handle a whipping, however excessive? It was offensive and _embarrassing_ to have Zoro look at him with that calm fucking smile like he needed to be protected! The cook’s anger rose with each step the swordsman took, as did his fear and shame for having his crewmate take his place when none of this had been his fault.

They handed Zoro a chalice filled with something called the “ceremonial drought,” and he tossed it back in three quick gulps like it was a normal mug of ale. Sanji hoped that it was because then it would help numb the pain—pain that _he_ was supposed to endure—but then he remembered that Zoro was built like a tank, and it would’ve taken fifty more of those chalices to even give him a buzz.

The swordsman handed the cup back to one of the guards, who immediately bound his hands in front with a length of thick, wiry rope. Shockingly, whatever had been in that chalice already seemed to be affecting even the Straw Hat’s tough swordsman. He swayed slightly on his feet, looking around the square and blinking slowly like he was in some sort of trance. Any hope that the mysterious liquid had been a blood thickener, or something else meant to decrease the severity of the lashes, went out of Sanji’s head.

“What the fuck did you just make him drink?!” the cook asked furiously. Zoro turned his head, looking for the source of his voice, and their eyes met for a brief moment, but there was no recognition in the swordsman’s glazed expression—only a mild curiosity that quickly faded as his attention turned to the man prodding him forwards. He stepped up to the whipping post without any resistance, and the remaining guards forced him to kneel with his back to Sanji. The skin there was beautifully flawless unlike the rest of his body, which carried countless scars from other battles, but it wouldn’t be that way for much longer, and the cook wanted to scream in fury for the insult his crewmate was about to receive.  

“The ceremonial drought…a wonderful concoction,” the priest was saying idly. He spoke as if to a genuinely curious onlooker, glancing down at the cook with a sickeningly proud demeanor. “It has a very interesting affect that's perfect for these types of situations. It suppresses the mind’s capability for rational thought while also intensifying the sensations of the body. For approximately eight hours, your crewmate will barely be able to form a coherent thought. All he will know is the pain his body feels. Magnificent, isn’t it?”

Sanji wanted to thrown up all over the man’s shiny leather shoes.

“Cook?”

The priest looked up in surprise when the distinct word left Zoro’s mouth, but his expression quickly reverted to its previous amusement. “How interesting…It seems this man is able to fight the effects of the drug somewhat. He must be quite the warrior,” he remarked, seeming rather impressed.        

“Zoro?”

“…s’okay. Don’t…fight…” he mumbled slowly, his head lolling on his shoulders. Someone had tied a second rope connecting Zoro’s hands to the top of the whipping post as well as secured his ankles to the platform with a set of primitive metal cuffs. He knelt there, unmoving, waiting for the blows that would surely be absolute agony with that fucked up drug in his system. Sanji watched in horror as the priest stepped forward eagerly to take a raised position behind the swordsman’s vulnerable form. Someone handed him a deadly-looking whip, and then the lashes began falling.  

For the first time ever, Sanji heard Zoro scream.

That in and of itself was horrifying—like hearing your mother scream when you were only a child who didn’t understand how someone you held in high regard could make such an awful noise. It seemed that no matter how strong or disciplined a person was, the ceremonial drought removed one’s ability to repress reactions to pain, and it was _not_ a blood thickener by any means. The street ran scarlet with Zoro’s blood for the next hundred lashes, but Sanji had screamed himself hoarse during the first forty. After that, he simply couldn’t bear to watch any longer. The site of the swordsman’s flawless back, marred so horribly by long, bloody slashes, forced his breakfast from his stomach before they were even halfway done.

Later, the cook would weep with shame and anger at his own selfishness for looking away, but in the moment, he could do nothing except bite his lip until his own blood ran—a measly injury that would cause his heart to clench painfully whenever he saw the dried cut in the mirror—and pray…pray that someone from their crew would hear the commotion and find them either before the hundred lashes were complete or within enough time for Zoro to be taken to Chopper for emergency medical treatment. Scars on the back were a swordsman’s shame, but maybe, just maybe, their talented doctor could spare him some extent of the wounds. 

It was a futile hope. No one came, and Zoro received the full one hundred lashes in the span of perhaps ten minutes, though it seemed like hours to the cook. The swordsman managed to stay conscious for nearly all of them too, which seemed to frustrate the manic priest, prompting him to wield his whip twice as hard for the last ten strokes. All too suddenly it was over, and the pair of Straw Hat’s were unceremoniously released by the guards. The first thing Sanji did was crawl over to where they’d left Zoro, slumped and bleeding profusely, on his famous black legs that felt as useless as jelly.

He didn’t dare look at the wounds directly, his hands trembling as he carefully felt for his crewmate’s pulse. He expected to find it without a problem because Zoro was too strong to die this easily—even if his sense of pain had been heightened, his body was still trained to able to handle an incredible amount of damage and blood loss—and there it was, beating faintly beneath the cook’s shaking fingers. He began to sob quietly, relieved nonetheless.

They had left Zoro’s clothes and weapons behind, in a neat little pile too, the fuckers, but they hadn’t bothered to leave a medical kit. The crowd had dispersed as well, and the remaining islanders passing by simply ignored the cook as he frantically worked to redress the swordsman in his own pants so that he could use whatever parts of the white robe that had not been soiled by Zoro’s blood to mop up the rest. It was a pathetic attempt since the lashes were too deep to be helped by a few strips of cloth, but he tried anyway, desperate to do _something_ useful while Zoro’s body fought the effects of the drug and returned to consciousness.

It happened quicker than he’d expected, and Sanji was not prepared to face the shattered pieces of clarity that Zoro presented when he finally lifted his head and turned to look at the cook’s tear-streaked face. Sanji just stared at him, eyes wide and lip trembling—there was nothing he could say that Zoro didn’t already know. They looked at each other for perhaps ten seconds before the swordsman managed to get his jumbled thoughts partly in order.

“…Hi.”

Sanji’s mind was reeling because…what the fuck?! _That’s_ what he had to say to him after everything that had just happened? It was so ludicrous that the cook felt a hysterical smile breakout on his face. “Hello to you, too, marimo.”

Zoro returned his smile dazedly, reaching a hand towards Sanji’s face with slow, curious movements like that of a child. The blond just sat there, waiting to see what he would do, until he felt the soft caress of the swordsman’s fingers as they spread the tears staining his cheek.

“…You’re…not my Sanji,” he mumbled, nodding to himself as if he’d just made an extremely important discovery. “…Tha’s good,” he added with a relieved sigh.

“E-excuse me?” Sanji asked in bewilderment.

The swordsman attempted a shrug, cringing as the motion stretched his wounds and letting out a small whine of pain that he never would have allowed the cook to hear under normal circumstances.

“What do you mean, I’m not Sanji?” he tried again, hoping to pierce through the haze of confusion in the swordsman’s mind. Every time he prompted Zoro to speak, it took three times as long as it should’ve for him to formulate an answer.

“…My Sanji…wouldn’t cry,” he stated finally, meeting the cook’s eyes again. “Not…for me. My Sanji…hates me.”

Another whine and Zoro’s attention turned back to the excruciating pain he must undoubtedly be in—there was no room in his muddled thoughts to spare for how the cook visibly jerked at that response. He was momentarily shocked that the swordsman would say something so self-deprecating to him, but then he reminded himself that this wasn’t the Zoro he knew—this was a Zoro who had been stripped of his walls and laid completely bare. He was unable to understand who he was talking to let alone police his thoughts and words the way that he normally would around the cook.

“Hey, I don’t hate you, marimo. What are you talking about?” he asked gently, hoping to convince his crewmate that he was himself.

Zoro looked at him again, and for a moment, the cook was sure that the swordsman understood who he was. His eyes panned across Sanji’s face, painstakingly taking in every inch of it—every individual feature—but the conclusion he came to seemed to be built on the faulty logic that the Sanji he knew wouldn’t ever cry for him.

“Weird…weird eyebrow…you even look like ‘im.”

“I _am_ him!” the cook insisted.

Zoro just shook his head again. “Not my Sanji. I should…find Sanji…”

“You found me, Zoro. I’m here. We need to find the rest of the crew—”

 _“Hates me…”_ he repeated emphatically, seeming anguished. Pain twisted on the swordsman’s face, his eyes blinking away a sudden flood of tears as they sought out Sanji’s face again. “Tell him…I’m sorry,” he said quietly, swaying as he tried to hold the cook’s gaze. Whatever little clarity he’d had faded away the longer Zoro looked at him until he regarded his crewmate uncomprehendingly. Before Sanji could reply, the swordsman began tilting to one side, finally slumping against the cook in a dead faint.

*

Eight hours—that was how long the head priest had said that the drug would keep Zoro as high as a kite. Knowing him though, it wouldn’t even last half as long, especially since he’d already been able to focus somewhat in the aftermath of the whipping. Sanji had sat with him after he’d fallen unconscious and begged anyone in the vicinity to get help—any help at all—but he had been studiously ignored. Luckily, Robin had wandered by and found the two of them in quite the sorry state, but the cook hadn’t even had it in him to care that the lovely lady saw his tear-streaked face while he’d cradled Zoro’s bleeding body to him.

The swordsman would be alright, she’d said. He was tough, Luffy later told the distressed cook—as if Sanji didn’t know that already. Chopper had insisted that the scars could be minimized by a special tincture he’d picked up in town, which the cook was not surprised to hear since public whippings seemed to be a trendy fad among these people, so it made sense for their shops to sell such medicine. No one had blamed the cook after he’d explained what had happened or gave him much thought at all, really—they were too busy carting the swordsman’s unconscious form back to the ship with the help of Robin, who made a makeshift gurney out of hands, Chopper lifting the front end in his human form, and their captain in the rear with his never-ending supply of strength.

Sanji did not help them carry the swordsman. He hung back with Nami and Usopp, holding Zoro’s precious swords to his chest and wallowing in an unexpectedly intense wave of misery. It was unusual for him to be so affected by his crewmates’ injuries, but this time was obviously different. He still couldn’t forget that horrible moment when Zoro had looked him in the face with tears in his eyes and insisted that Sanji hated him.

Perhaps it had just been the drugs making the swordsman overly-emotional, like how a weepy drunk might break into tears at the smallest thing, but the cook honestly didn’t think that was the case. Zoro had looked so utterly  _destroyed_ by his certainty that the cook didn’t give two shits about him, which made Sanji wonder if that had been the reason for the green-haired man’s earlier words:  _Because it’ll hurt less this way,_ he’d said. Hurt _who_ less? He had probably figured that Sanji wouldn’t even bat an eye at his suffering, which the swordsman had technically brought on himself by volunteering, but that simply wasn’t true. He didn’t hate Zoro at all—not with a single fiber of his being. Any of the crap he gave the swordsman was purely a defense mechanism to cover for the cook’s greatest secret…

He loved Zoro more than anyone.

In fact, he was _in_ love with him and had been for as long as he could remember. It was a little known fact that he swung both ways, and although he usually leaned towards females (the gorgeous and wonderful beings that they were), he’d had opportunities in the past to play the field a little. Plus, it was no secret that some ladies loved to see a little man-on-man action, so who was he to deny them that pleasure?

He had never shared this detail about his preferences with his crewmates, and the main reason was because of that shitty-swordsman. It had started out as a harmless crush, which he had kept to himself because Zoro was as stoic and unapproachable as they came, but over the years, that so-called “crush” had grown immeasurably. Yes, they fought constantly and got on each other’s nerves almost twenty-four-seven, but most of it was for show—or at least, Sanji had _thought_ it was mostly for show. He had never believed that Zoro really hated him because the swordsman simply wasn’t that petty or oversensitive. He’d always figured that they were on the same page when it came to their cat vs. dog relationship because whenever they were completely alone, however rare that was, there had always be a sort of unspoken truce between them.

Some of his fondest memories were of the two of them just sharing a casual drink when they ran into each other late at night on the ship or cracking stupid jokes at their crewmates’ expense behind the kitchen sink, wet dishes and a drying rag in their hands. It was those moments—the secret harmony they fell into when it was just the two of them—that Sanji loved most of all. He knew that as much as they acted like rivals around the others there was still an understanding that neither man would start a pointless fight or toss meaningless insults during those few precious times that they were completely removed from the rest of the world.

Today, he’d discovered that he and Zoro weren’t on the same page at all. Apparently Sanji had been _too_ good at concealing his feelings for the other man, and now he wasn’t even sure if Zoro saw those moments as real. It broke the cook’s heart to wonder if that was the case because if what the swordsman had said during his drugged-up haze were true, then it was possible that he regarded their unspoken truce as necessary moments of peace that only occurred because even cats and dogs needed a break from chasing each another every once and a while.

He couldn’t bear the thought that Zoro might have actually grown to hate him.

These thoughts plagued his mind while their doctor laboured away on the swordsman’s wounds, cleaning and sanitizing them, stitching the ragged folds of ruined skin back together, and wrapping endless lengths of gauze over a thick layer of healing tincture. Sanji forced himself to sit in the room and watch Chopper work despite how the tiny reindeer had put up a fuss about it being unsanitary. Eventually, the cook was able to convince him that he could use the extra pair of hands, and together they had attempted to put the swordsman back together again.

Blood transfusions, intravenous infusions, medicines to counteract the effects of whatever the fuck those psychos had made him drink—the procedures seemed endless to the cook, who quickly gained a new respect for the difficulties involved in Chopper’s work. His stomach rebelled against him on more than one occasion, but he held it together for Zoro, who was surely suffering much worse even in unconsciousness. The swordsman was given enough drugs to knock out a horse, as well as something for the pain that seemed to make him even loopier the one time that he did manage to open his eyes. He only said one word, and it buried the metaphorical dagger an inch deeper in the cook’s heart.

“Sanji…”

“You should stay with him if he’s asking for you,” Chopper decided, looking curiously from their swordsman to their cook. “If he wakes up again and you’re not here, he might panic. I think he’s worried about what might have happened to you after he blacked out.”

“He’s not worried about me,” Sanji said blankly, his eyes trained on the peaceful drug-induced bliss that had finally taken to the swordsman’s expression. “I’ll sit with him, Chopper.”

“Well, okay…Come and get me right away if anything changes.”

“Sure.”

And with that, the cook was left to sit at Zoro’s bedside while the doctor got some rest. Although Sanji was probably even more exhausted after the day he’d just had, he refused to let anyone else watch over Zoro when it was his responsibility, so he waited, and waited until the swordsman finally opened his eyes. When he did, they found the cook’s worried gaze immediately, and a glimmer of surprised confusion set in at the realization that Sanji was there with him.

“What the hell do _you_ want, curly-brows?” Zoro muttered, attempting to prop himself up with a mound of pillows so that he could properly glare at the blond. “Where’s Chopper? He’s usually making a huge fuss about me not moving when I’m injured,” he added as he seated himself more comfortably.

Sanji’s relief was so great that he forgot to scold the other man for exactly that. Instead, he just stared at him as the dagger in his heart twisted ever so slightly at Zoro’s obvious discomfort at finding him there. It hurt, to be honest, but it also reminded him of the swordsman’s misunderstanding, which the cook was determined to set straight as soon as possible.

“It’s the middle of the night, so he’s asleep. Someone had to watch over you,” Sanji explained nervously. He suddenly felt insecure and unwanted under the swordsman’s annoyed gaze, but that was exactly why he needed to be here—to prove to Zoro that he _did_ care about him.

“I don’t see why that had to be you. Who’s on night-watch if you’re in here?” Zoro grumbled.

“Robin-chan. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up…We need to talk,” Sanji told him firmly, swallowing his discomfort so he could get to the point. The swordsman looked at him warily, his grumpy expression never wavering.

“If you’re going to complain about me stepping in for you then don’t bother. I don’t care what you think,” he insisted.

“That’s a bullshit lie—and it’s actually what I wanted to talk about...You said some things while you were still drugged up, and if you actually meant them then I have some things that I need to say to you.”

Zoro froze immediately, his face paling at the cook’s words. He knotted his hands in the bedsheets, refusing to meet Sanji’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I—I was out of my mind, so whatever it was you think you heard—”

“I don’t _think_ I heard anything. You said it to my face thinking I was somebody else.”

Silence. The swordsman seemed to be holding his breath, his knuckles going white as they clenched even tighter around the blankets. The silence was more than uncomfortable—it was heavy and stifling. Both men knew that the conversation they were about to have could not be taken back, and Sanji almost changed his mind about addressing the issue because every muscle in Zoro’s body screamed his reluctance to admit to anything the cook might accuse him of.

“What…did I say?” he asked finally, still dutifully avoiding the cook’s eyes.

“You said that I hate you.”

He seemed surprised by that, turning to finally meet Sanji’s serious expression. “Yeah, and?”

“And that’s bullshit! We’re nakama. I don’t—I mean...even though we fight, I thought we still—”

“Still what? It’s not like we’re friends or anything. We just sail on the same crew,” Zoro cut in stubbornly. His posture had relaxed some, which seemed suspicious to the cook because if he hadn’t expected Sanji to say that then what _had_ he been so worried about hearing?

“If that’s true, and I’m just an unavoidable presence on this ship to you, then why the fuck would you do something like this? You can’t seriously think you’re that much tougher than me that I wouldn’t have been able to handle their punishment—and what was all that shit about it hurting less? I’m pissed enough as it is that you acted like it was no big deal to take a hundred goddamn lashes for me, so just fucking man-up and explain yourself!”

“I don’t have to justify my actions to you, Cook. Why don’t you fuck off so I can go back to sleep? Chopper will have my balls if I start a fight with you before I’m healed, which is exactly what’s about to happen if you don’t mind your own damn business!” he snapped angrily.

Sanji was shaking with rage at this point. He couldn’t believe what an asshole the other man was being, and it was starting to become difficult to mask the hurt he was feeling. It had been a stupid, foolish idea to confess his love when there was no way in hell that Zoro would even believe him. Clearly the swordsman hated him with everything he had, and Sanji honestly didn’t think he could sit there and listen to the marimo shit-talk him much longer without bursting into tears like a love-struck idiot. It had simply been too emotional a day for the tired, stressed-out cook to bear it any longer.

“If that’s the way you really feel then I’ll drop it and leave you alone, but if you’re just trying to keep up this fucking act between us then stop being defensive and tell me the truth—why would you take that punishment for me? I don’t fucking understand!”

“What act? There _is_ no act, stupid-cook! There’s _nothing_ between us except animosity—or have you been blind this whole time? I took the punishment because I’m less necessary to the crew’s everyday life—it’s that simple. Even if I’m stuck on bed-rest for a week, you and Luffy and the others can handle yourselves in a fight, but who the hell is supposed to cook for everyone if you’re out of commission? There’s no point in making everyone’s life harder just because _you_ can’t keep your dick in your pants. I’m expendable for things like this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re not—that’s insane!” Sanji shouted wildly. “I don’t believe you. Even if you think we’re enemies, I _know_ you, Zoro. You don’t think about people in terms of who’s useful or expendable. Now tell me the goddamn truth!”

“Will you give it a rest? I already told you; I don’t have to explain myse—”

“YES, YOU DO. Do you have ANY idea what it was like watching them do that to you when it should've been me?! I didn't need you to butt in. I’m not your fucking responsibility! Even if you thought you were doing it for the crew, you still put me through that shit, and you owe me a goddamn explanation or so help me I will—”

“FIGURE IT OUT FOR YOURSELF IF IT’S SO FUCKING IMPORTANT,” Zoro yelled at him, red-faced and steaming.

“I can’t read your mind, dumbass!”

“Then try to use your fucking brain for something other than cooking or flirting for once!” he suggested mockingly. “Can you seriously not think of ANY reason why I might have done that for you?!”

“I…I don’t know. I just don’t understand you. I thought I did, but…”

“You don’t,” Zoro told him coldly, “and I’m not gonna spell it out for you, so drop it already.”

“I can’t.”

“No, you _won’t,_ you stubborn ass.”

“ARG! You’re such an insufferable _bastard!_ What am I supposed to think? Is it just that you have a fucking hero complex? Are you a bloody masochist who gets his rocks off being whipped or something? Or maybe you thought you could rub it in my face afterward and teach me a lesson about pouring out my affections to every beautiful woman I see—I know that you hate it when I do that,” Sanji ranted, equally enraged.

“And why do you think that is, huh? Why do you think it bothers me so much? Why would I put myself through something like that when it was a hundred percent your fault for pissing them off?”

“I’m saying that I don’t know—I don’t know why, and it’s driving me fucking _crazy!_ If I’m as big an asshole as you make me out to be, then why—”

“IT’S BECAUSE I LOVE YOU, YOU FUCKING MORON!”

“…I…b-but you…” and that was all the cook could get out because his brain had officially imploded. He _couldn’t_ have heard Zoro say what he thought he'd just said, and Zoro couldn’t _possibly_ mean what it sounded like.

The swordsman sighed and took a shaky breath, flexing his fingers as they slowly uncurled from the bedsheets. He was back to avoiding Sanji’s eyes again, and his face was more flushed than the cook had ever seen it.

“Just forget it,” he said blandly. “It doesn’t matter why because it’s already done. I didn’t really do it for you anyway…I did it because I’m selfish.”

“Selfish?” Sanji pressed, his voice sounding small and far away even to his own ears.

“You could've taken those lashes no problem, but it would have…it would have killed me to see them hurt you like that. I took your place because it would hurt _me_ less—that’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

Sanji was frozen in disbelief. This just couldn’t be Zoro talking—it was impossible. The swordsman hated him—he _had_ to hate him. With the way that they were constantly at each other’s throats, a confession like that was…

It was exactly how Sanji felt. The cook had always fought with Zoro to hide his true fondness for the other man…Could it seriously be true that this entire time—over all the years they’d sailed together—each of them had been hiding the same thing from the other?

Ridiculous. Highly improbable. There was just no way they were both that _stupid._

“You got what you wanted from me, Cook. Now you know why I told you to fucking drop it. This is on you, asshole—you had no right to pry into my thoughts like that, but now it’s done, and it can’t be undone, so I hope you’re fucking happy. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to be left alone,” Zoro told him calmly, closing himself off from Sanji completely.

“I see. Fine…if that’s how it is.”

The swordsman ignored him as he got up from the chair and turned to walk away. Sanji could barely feel his legs, and his body trembled uncontrollably as he moved to the door as though he were in a dream—and perhaps he was, because it just seemed too good to be true. His thoughts were running a mile a minute as he tried to fathom what the swordsman had just told him.

Zoro loved him.

He loved Zoro.

They were fucking _idiots._

Sanji clicked the lock shut. He paused in front of the door, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he attempted to breath deeply and calm his racing heart. The sound of the door locking rang throughout the room with finality, trapping them inside the little infirmary. He clenched his fists and turned back around, striding purposely towards the swordsman’s bed. Zoro looked up at him in startled confusion, but the expression instantly became alert, his gaze darting around the room in search of his swords.

“If you’re going to kill me, you’d better do it before I arm myself, Cook,” he growled dangerously.

Sanji ignored this, kicking aside the empty chair to clear a path to the bedside. He planted a knee on the edge of the mattress and swung his other leg over Zoro’s waist, pinning him underneath his strong, flexible legs. The swordsman sucked in a sharp breath and trained his glare on the cook’s hands, which had gripped the front of his bandages and dragged him bodily from the stack of pillows that had been propping him up.

“You can try to smother me to death, but it’s not going to work unless you can restrain my arms. I can throw your skinny ass across this fucking room without moving an inch,” Zoro threatened, but his voice had gone quiet and shaky as his gaze flickered over the cook’s face in search of an explanation for the sudden, unusual action. They looked at each other in silence, neither man willing to so much as breathe when the air surrounding them had become so thick with charged tension.

“Zoro…” the cook said in a voice that was just as shaky and hoarse with emotion.

“…?”

“Shut up.”

“Wha—”

The blond shut him up with a fierce kiss, smashing their lips together with enough force to drive the swordsman back into the mound of pillows. He melted into them willingly, reaching up to grip the cook’s waist in an automatic gesture. Zoro’s fingers loosened their hold instantly, then tightened, and then loosened again as if he weren’t quite sure how to respond appropriately.     

Sanji broke the kiss to growl, “Touch me—fucking touch me, marimo!” and Zoro complied with enthusiasm, sliding his hands from the cook’s waist to the curve of his spine as the slimmer man bent over him. The swordsman pressed them even closer together, a broken moan rumbling in the back of his throat when the Sanji shifted his hips forward in a motion that could only be described as unabashedly filthy. Zoro grinded his own hips upward, dragging a similar moan out of the cook, who gripped his shoulders with clawed hands and panted into his mouth.

They kissed like a wildfire—hot and unrestrained—with bursts of intense passion that burned uncontrollably and consumed them both in the blaze. It was beautiful, and sexy, and utterly _perfect._ Sanji thought he might faint from lack of oxygen and the overwhelming heat of it all.

“I love you too, idiot,” he managed to get out in between kisses. “I’ve loved you for _so long,_ Zoro. _Why the hell didn’t you say something sooner?!”_

“Because I thought you hated me,” he admitted breathlessly. “I was so sure. You always said—”

“Who cares what I said? I fucking lied because you always acted like it was the worst thing in the world to even be near me! If I’d known that there was even a _chance_ that you could return my feelings, I would’ve done this _years_ ago!”  

“It’s too late to complain about it now. We’ll just have to make up for lost time,” Zoro told him with a sly grin.

Sanji collapsed against him, burying his face in the other man’s chest to hide how his eyes welled up with tears. “You fucking idiot,” he whimpered. “Don’t _ever_ do something so stupid again. Look at you, covered in bandages and bedridden, and it’s my fault!”

“It isn’t. Those assholes don’t know you at all—you’d never hurt a woman, Cook. She wasn’t in any danger, but they overreacted because they didn’t understand that that’s just how you are. It annoys the shit out of me, but then again you’ve always annoyed the shit out of me.”

“Then how can you say you love me?”

“Because I love that you annoy the shit out of me—I want you to annoy me every day until I die.”

“Fuck— _Zoro._ ”

The swordsman leaned up and kissed him again, silencing any further conversation. They clung to each other with love and desperation, ignoring everything else around them—ignoring the wetness on their faces, the pain from Zoro’s wounds, and even the knocking at the door. They kissed until they fell asleep in each other’s arms, knowing that it wouldn’t be the last time…not by far.

*  *  *

*Knock knock knock*

“Sanji? Zoro? What’s going on? Why is the door locked?” Chopper called in a panic. He’d come the next morning to check on his patient and give the swordsman his pain medication only to find that the infirmary was locked from the inside. The poor little doctor was preparing to bust down the door when he heard Zoro moan, long and loud, but the sudden appearance of the Straw Hat’s archaeologist stopped him.

“Can you see what’s happening inside, Robin? It sounds like Zoro’s in pain! He needs a doctor!” the blue-nosed reindeer told her frantically.

“You _are_ the doctor, but I don’t think Sanji or Zoro need you at the moment. I think you should give them some time to…lick the swordsman’s wounds,” she said with a sly grin.

“But I still haven’t finished his treatment! If those two are fighting, he might reopen his stitches and then—”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s too late to prevent that, but Swordsman-san is tough. He can handle the cook…or vice versa,” she mused distractedly.

“B-b-but Robin!”

“Trust me on this, Chopper—and trust that those two will take _very_ good care of each other. We should give them an hour for some much-needed alone time,” she suggested just as Sanji’s raised voice floated through the door, challenging the volume of Zoro’s previous moan. “Hmm. Perhaps _two_ hours…just to be safe.”

 _“Ah! Zoro!_ Sh-shit…right there…”

“Mmm...oh God, _Sanji!_ ”

 

♥ ~~ END ~~ ♥


End file.
